


Snapshots

by leiascully



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen, Photographs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 06:02:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12624780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: Mulder doesn't keep albums.





	Snapshots

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: n/a  
> A/N: From a tumblr prompt.  
> Disclaimer: _The X-Files_ and all related characters are the property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox Studios. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

He can’t remember the last time he bought frames for his photograph, or any kind of album. The only framed photograph in his apartment anymore is an old one of himself and Samantha. He dimly recalls a special at Sears, the forest backdrop something his mother picked while his father stared into space and tapped a packet of cigarettes against the counter. He hasn’t had any memories he’s wanted to keep since. Diana kept a photo album, he thinks, but she took it with her. He’s surprised that she wanted to preserve any memories of their time, but he realizes more and more he knew very little about her. 

In the bottom drawer of his desk, there’s a stack of loose photographs. In photographing the evidence, he always has a few snaps of Scully: first, it was unintentional, then it was a way to irritate her, and then it was a way to preserve the record of her transformation from thorn in his side to steadfast partner. He sifts through each developed roll of film and sorts out the photos of Scully. He collects the shots of them from the other photographers as well. They’re of no use as evidence in their cases, only as evidence that he still has someone on his side. He could throw them away, but he makes the excuse to himself that he might have unintentionally preserved a clue in the background of one of the images. He has captured her in suits, in scrubs, in the oversized t-shirt she once wore as pajamas, in the matched pajama sets she wears now. He has photographs of her yawning, staring keenly into the distance with her chin cupped in her hand, gingerly sipping diner coffee, and typing her reports. 

He shuffles through them sometimes and catches himself smiling fondly at those early images. God, she was green, and he was raw, and they jostled up against each other until those rough edges were smoothed away. No wonder they fit together so neatly now; they have ground away at each other in equal measure, shaping themselves into one thing, yin and yang tracing the same circle for eternity. There’s a comfort in it. He can see the connection between them in others’ photographs, even when they’re facing in different directions. 

He doesn’t want to put the photos in an album. It would give the photos too much importance. He has learned to hide the significance of a thing deep in his heart, leaving few traces for an outside eye to glean. All the things he has treasured have been taken from him, so he leaves the photos loose, in a messy heap, with the excuse that government money paid for the film and he’s obligated to keep every image. But he flips through them the way a gambler rubs his thumb across a deck of cards, taking comfort from the way the stiff paper softens.


End file.
